Sherlock and I
by highfunctioning-homosapien
Summary: Johnlock one shot. Not sure where this came from, it was intended as a drunk!sherlock fic but went a bit astray. It's written from my headcanon but I hope you enjoy it all the same. Obviously I own nothing, the marvelous Gatiss, Moffat and Doyle do.


The case had been a long one. Sherlock and I had ran half the way across London, waded into the Thames, broke our way into old warehouses, not to mention nearly being shot twice, _again._Nevertheless, it was over at last, thank god. I had been starting to think Sherlock had perhaps moved into Bart's morgue, considering he had been there so often, though of course, Molly wouldn't have objected if he had done.

It was Friday night. Most of London would be leaving work and heading for the pub. I however was still at the clinic. I had agreed to work overtime due to my recent and frequent absences. I honestly didn't see why Sarah didn't just fire me, though I was glad she hadn't. God knows I need the money, what with Sherlock "not needing an incentive".

Sarah popped her head round the side of my door as my last patient of the week left "OK, John that's you done. By the way, will you be in next week, or will I need to get a temp to replace my temp?" There was humour in her eyes, but I knew she was serious all the same.

"I really don't know Sarah, I'm so sorry" It was the truth, I really was sorry. I hated letting her down all of the time, but I could never ignore the mysterious texts I got from Sherlock- the promise of danger in this monotonous city.

"OK well I hope I'll see you next week. I know you like to help out Sherlock, but he's got to understand that you have your own life too"

I watched her as she gave me a small smile and walked away. She was right; I sighed, put on my jacket and left.

My phone beeped as I got on the packed tube and I struggled to get it out of my pocket without elbowing a commuter in the face. It read:

"_John, you're on a tube aren't you. -SH"_

I had got used to Sherlock knowing things he shouldn't, despite not understanding how. I didn't bother to text back "how did you know?" I knew it would only make his ego bigger. I settled for a simple _"__yes__"_

My phone beeped again shortly after:

"_You __should __have __got __a __taxi __it__'__s __quicker __-SH__"_

To which I replied:

"_Yeah and it's also a lot more expensive. I don't have that sort of money and you know it. Also if you're trying to get me to rush home so I can send a text or pass you something then you can do it yourself -JW"_

To my satisfaction, he didn't reply after that.

Yet again, I tried to deduce something about the people around me on the tube; I thought that maybe some of Sherlock's ability would have rubbed off on me, though apparently it hadn't. I could tell that the man standing next to me probably worked in a high paid office job, going by the briefcase and the fairly well made suit and that the woman sitting down had a child, because it was sitting on her lap. I could picture Sherlock rolling his eyes at me, if he found out how poorly I had imitated his skill.

"Clever bastard" I muttered, smiling wryly and got off the tube.

"Hi Sherlock!" I shouted up the stairs of 221b. There was no reply from the consulting detective. I dropped my coat over the chair and looked about the flat. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, his violin lying across his stomach, the bow left discarded on the floor.

"Hello John how was the clinic today? Busy?"

"Um yes, fairly. What did you want me rush over here for by the way?"

"Doesn't matter"

"Okay, well do you want some dinner? I was going to make some Bolognese"

"Fine. Do you need any help?" He swung his legs over the side of the sofa with unexplainable grace, and dropped his violin on the vacated seat.

"Really?" I asked, incredulously.

"Really" He smiled at me and walked into the kitchen.

"Well you could, um, boil some water for the spaghetti and chop some vegetables. Have you ever cooked before?"

"Of course I've cooked before" He sounded defensive and I eyed him suspiciously. He chose to ignore me, so I handed him the vegetables to be chopped.

My initial doubts about Sherlock's cooking ability proved correct. He had somehow managed to turn the tomatoes into a watery mush and the herbs were going to same way.

"Okay, Sherlock maybe they didn't need _that_much chopping. Could you just stir the onions instead?"

"You told be to chop them, you never said how finely to do it" He retorted.

"Yeah, because most people know that when it starts to resemble baby food, you've chopped a bit too much"

He turned his piercingly cold, grey gaze on me and I automatically looked down towards my hands. Sherlock really had mastered the art of facial expressions. He didn't even need words, his face said it all, or at least his eyes did. Obviously, I had hurt his self-esteem, which was a bad move. He stirred the onions with resentment, merely poking them about the pan.

Despite Sherlock's inability to cook, which more hindered than helped me, Spaghetti Bolognese was eventually put on the table. This was one of the rare times that Sherlock ever bothered to eat. Just after a long case, in which he had eaten the bare minimum to stay alive, now he had finally succumbed to hunger. His body, despite being only for transport, needed food and he knew it.

"Fancy some wine with it?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Well we have some in the fridge. The case about the lost boy, his mother gave you a bottle as thanks, remember?"

"Yes but why do we need it?"

"We don't especially, I just thought we should drink it and that case you solved yesterday _was_ a hard one"

"Okay, fine. I suppose so"

I wasn't sure whether Sherlock even drank, as it seemed that he was accepting the wine more for my benefit, rather than his own. Since we had first moved in together, he had become slowly easier to live with. I had speculated that it was perhaps that I was the only person to ever live with him for a meaningful amount of time and he didn't want me to move out. I could see why people would want to move out, Sherlock Holmes was definitely not an easy person to live with, but I didn't leave, however sulky he could be, or whatever he did to the flat, I stayed.

"That was good" I said, as I put down my cutlery.

"My chopping abilities didn't ruin it then?"

"Not quite"

I ignored the eyebrow he raised at me and cleared away our plates, and Sherlock poured the rest of the wine out into our glasses.

"I think _X-factor_ is on. Want to watch it?" I asked.

"Not particularly"

"Oh, C'mon, watch it!"

He paused for a second "Ugh fine. I suppose I don't have anything else to be doing" he muttered.

"Brilliant!"

I took a couple of beers out of the fridge before joining Sherlock on the sofa. I opened one and passed it to him.

"Here, it's Friday, we might as well. I was going to go to the pub, but I realized I had no-one to go with- you're not really the pub-going type, and I was too tired to go on my own"

Two beers later and _X-factor_ had got a lot more interesting.

"BOO! No you're rubbish go away! And she lied about the cat dying, she's never even owned a cat!" Sherlock waved his arm at the television screen exasperatedly. I snorted into my beer bottle as Sherlock leaned back into the sofa, hugging his knees as usual.

The fake cat owner left the stage and a middle-aged man replaced her.

"I bet he's going to be crap" I said more to myself than anything.

"Did you deduce that, John?"

"Yes, I did! You can clearly tell from his posture and his sweatshirt, that he is a terrible singer!" I caught Sherlock's eye and we fell apart laughing. Alcohol seemed to open Sherlock up. He was less uptight and well less Sherlock-y I supposed.

"How come you don't drink often then?" I asked him.

"Why would I want to? Alcohol distorts the vision and slows reactions and brain performance. My brain, eyes and reaction time are all vital to my work"

"Why are you drinking now then?"

He looked taken aback and stared thoughtfully at me for a second "Because you asked me to. Because that's what normal people do in their normal lives, isn't it? I'm trying John, I really am. Trying to be a better person… For you" His voice trailed off.

I stared back into those almost clear eyes and I saw truth written within them. I was stunned by his words and the sheer emotion that was behind them. I'd never seen him display that kind of emotion before, making himself so vulnerable.

"Sherlock… You don't…" I started, but my brain had lost its ability to form consecutive words.

"John. I can't. You can't. I… You've changed me. I don't know how and I hate that, but you have. I couldn't bear it if you were to leave"

I felt a tear fall down my cheek but I ignored it "Sherlock I'd never leave" I almost whispered.

He met my gaze again and suddenly we were much closer. I could hear his short, shallow breaths and almost feel his warmth radiating off him. Then my lips met his. I wasn't sure how it happened, or why any part of my brain thought that this was a good idea, but it did happen. His lips were warm, and full against mine and he was much warmer than I expected, not as porcelain as he looked. I pressed into him and his mouth opened, then I heard a small noise in his throat and he pulled away, hastily.

"John…" His voice was uncharacteristically small and questioning. It hit me suddenly that perhaps Sherlock had never kissed anyone before. I felt horrible for pushing my feelings on to him. It wasn't fair of me.

"I'm sorry… I…"

"John. I don't…" He looked down, perhaps embarrassed. "You've changed me, but I'm still married to my work. I've never felt anything remotely like how I feel for you, I wasn't even sure I could feel things normal people can, but I can't do this. It's… Too soon. Too much. I… I think love you John Watson. Not like friends, but not like lovers either"

Abruptly I noticed that he was crying and I was drowning in the wave of emotion that washed over me. I took his face in my hand and he shied away, but I leant forwards and kissed his forehead. Sherlock sniffed quietly and put his hand on my shoulder. It was a small gesture but it meant the world to him.

We sat like that for some time, our heads resting against each other's and our eyes closed. I felt like the world outside our protective, bullet-strewn walls was dead. It could as well have been dead. An atomic bomb could have gone off and we would still be sitting here, in our silence, the buzz of the TV was miles away.

I was shocked by just how much Sherlock could feel and how much of himself he had shown to me that night. The layers of defence he had been building around him since birth were crumbling. He had taken down the walls and laid his emotions bare and I was humbled and flattered.

After what felt like a millennium, I broke our silent vigil and wiped the tears from Sherlock's face. Some of them had clinged to his eyelashes and clumped them together in little spikes and his eyes and nose were pink, making him look like a young boy.

"…I love you too" It felt as though another person was speaking through me, but it was the truth. I had never even thought about Sherlock in that way, but I supposed that Sherlock and I didn't love each other in that way anyway, not like normal people do. We would never get married or have children like couples do, or even share a bed. Love wasn't the right word; we needed a new word for whatever we were. People would speculate and call us gay lovers, or friends with benefits, but we weren't any of those things. Like he said: we weren't just friends, but we weren't lovers either. We were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


End file.
